


Until St. Dymphna Kicks Us Out

by MajorAccent



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Catholic Guilt, Drinking & Talking, Dubious Morality, M/M, Masturbation, Mid-Season One, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 04:36:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12124653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorAccent/pseuds/MajorAccent
Summary: “This,” He begins and holds up the still burning tobacco. “Says you don’t want to be a priest.” He sits up in his seat, feeling the effects of the hardwood on his spine and ass. “That,” he points with his chin to the half empty bottle of whiskey that’s tucked between Jesse’s leg and the end of the pew. “Your profane language, your ability and inclination to kick the shit out of drunkards in a bar fight, premarital sex—”“Alright, alright.” Jesse interrupts, waving a hand between them as if he could physically knock away Cassidy’s list. “I know, I’m not the best priest.”The silence drags and Cassidy leans forward to offer Jesse the last third of the cigarette. “No, you certainly ain’t,” he agrees with a grin. “But that’s why I like you so much, Padre.”





	Until St. Dymphna Kicks Us Out

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting in my google docs since like episode 5 of season one and i'm tired of it hanging out there.
> 
> title comes from conor oberst's "till st. dymphna kicks us out," go figure.

Smoke blows out of Jesse Custer’s mouth as he holds the cigarette between his thumb and two fingers, looking at Cassidy on the opposite pew. “So,” he drawls and leans backwards, the wooden edge of the seat pressing uncomfortably on the back of his thighs as he sprawls out further. “How’d you manage to come to America?”  
  
Cassidy shrugs, head lolling back as he looks up towards the attic so he doesn’t have to meet Jesse’s gaze. “Oh, y’know...” he replies and slides his foot along the floor so he can knock at the preacher’s ankle. “I went through a period of poor impulse control.”  
  
“That’s a bullshit answer and you know it,” Jesse accuses and Cassidy wonders if he’s aware that the Southern twang in his voice gets more pronounced with his anger and drunkeness.  
  
The vampire’s gaze sweeps languidly down, head cocked as he looks at Jesse now. “Why do you wanna know so bad, Padre?” He asks, deflecting. “It’s not an interesting story; it’s kinda sad, really. Don’t like to dwell on the past and all that.”  
  
Jesse hums around the filter, making the cherry red glow brighter as he inhales. “I ran away from home, too.” He admits and taps the ash off, uncaring to where it lands on the church’s floorboards.  
  
“And somehow we were lucky enough to find and recognize each other as kin.” Cassidy grins, his teeth barely illuminated by the moonlight. “A band o’ merry misfits, we are.”  
  
He leans forward, outstretching his hand toward Jesse and motioning vaguely to the one that’s holding the cigarette, silently asking for his turn.  
  
Jesse looks between the half-burnt cigarette and Cassidy’s raised eyebrows and twitching fingers. “Misfits?” He repeats with a rising inflection before he spins the tobacco between his middle and index fingers, offering the filter end.  
  
“Well, look at us.” Cassidy answers, plucking the cigarette away and taking a breath through it before he continues. Smoke spreads over every word: “Me, a centuries-old vampire. You, a peculiar priest that has no interest in being priestly.”  
  
The scowl that Jesse’s wearing seems to disagree. “I have plenty interest in being priestly,” he argues.  
  
“Uh-huh,” Cassidy sarcastically agrees and takes another pull from the cigarette. “Add lying onto the list, because you do not actually want to be a priest. You’re only here because you made some promise.”  
  
“I keep my promises,” Jesse argues. “Promises are important.”  
  
“This,” He begins and holds up the still burning tobacco. “Says you don’t want to be a priest.” He sits up in his seat, feeling the effects of the hardwood on his spine and ass. “That,” he points with his chin to the half empty bottle of whiskey that’s tucked between Jesse’s leg and the end of the pew. “Your profane language, your ability and inclination to kick the shit out of drunkards in a bar fight, premarital sex—”  
  
“Alright, alright.” Jesse interrupts, waving a hand between them as if he could physically knock away Cassidy’s list. “I know, I’m not the best priest.”  
  
The silence drags and Cassidy leans forward to offer Jesse the last third of the cigarette. “No, you certainly ain’t,” he agrees with a grin. “But that’s why I like you so much, Padre.”  
  
Jesse sighs and reaches for the whiskey, the cap already mostly twisted off when he gets a hand around it. “I’m trying,” he argues and looks down the bottle’s neck to the amber liquid, thinking about it and weighing the options before he tosses back a mouthful.  
  
Cassidy shrugs and stands just enough so he can swing into the seat next to Jesse. “Does this look like tryin’ to you?” He asks, suddenly quiet and genuinely curious.  
  
“I don’t know what this is,” Jesse admits and holds the bottle out for Cassidy, plucking the cigarette out of his grip with his other hand.  
  
“Well,” Cassidy hums, watching Jesse’s chest expand as he inhales the last hit. “Quote: "You can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, you just might find: you get what you need.” Cassidy grins as it startles a laugh out of Jesse and he coughs on smoke as he chokes in surprise. “I believe that’s Psalms 42.”  
  
“Oh, sure.” Jesse nods, playing along.  
  
There’s silence again, and Cassidy thinks it’s the lull before Jesse forces him to call it a night so he can go to bed. He slumps in the seat, pressing his shoulders against the backboard of the pew in preparation to use it as leverage so he can stand. Cassidy looks to the preacher, but Jesse is looking at the church’s rafters above them.  
  
Jesse drops the cigarette to floor and crushes it with the heel of his boot. “You know what I need?” He asks, looking down at the vampire.  
  
Cassidy wants to joke. He wants to make a crack and dispel the tension that’s settled between them. It’d be so easy to mention the perpetually broken air conditioning unit. But Cassidy shakes his head, too aware of the tightness in his jeans to look away from Jesse’s gaze. “No,” he croaks out. “Can’t say I do.”  
  
“What I need…” Jesse drawls, eyes flicking from Cassidy’s eyes to his mouth to his jaw before he repeats and trips and starts a new pattern.  
  
“Yeah?” Cassidy presses, telling him to continue. He feels trapped and over-exposed, pinned by the preacher’s scrutiny and stillness. The Texas air is oppressive, making his clothes cling to him, but it’s not the heat and humidity that’s causing his lizard brain to roll into high alert. The tension settles into his bones as the silence becomes deafening, the only real sound being the crickets outside and their own breathing. The feeling of being prey is overwhelming in their close quarters, making the vampire squirm before he sits up to his full height. He wets his dry lips, breathing deliberately slow now in an effort to project a faux sense of calm.  
  
Jesse follows the motion and mirrors it. “A shower,” he finally finishes and sways out of Cassidy’s gravity. “A shower,” he reiterates and stands on Bambi legs before he catches himself and stands up straight. “I need a shower, Cassidy,” he says without turning around and heads to the back of the church to his private bathroom.

—

The pipes creak as the shower runs, streaming from the attic’s water heater to the opposite end of the church. The sound serves as a constant reminder to the fact that Jesse is a brisk walk and a door away, naked and wet and unobtainable.  
  
Thankfully the overwhelming Texan heat backs off during the night, letting the attic cool down to a manageable mugginess, but Cassidy still uses it as an excuse to strip bare. His shirt clings to him with a mix of old and new sweat, reminding him that he really ought to fix that damned air conditioner for comfort and not just to justify his reason for sticking around. Though, given his near-dead body temperature and constant state of heat-hunger, it could be worse. At least in Texas he manages to work up a sweat. He is certainly not fairing as bad as any other ordinary mortal. Cassidy not completely sure where Jesse resides on the spectrum of human and supernatural anymore, if they even share the same litmus test.  
  
Cassidy goes to unknot the length of rope he’d been using as a belt, fingers fumbling against the metal button and zipper as his cock throbs beneath the layers of denim and cotton. “Shite,” he curses at himself, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a steadying breath as the voice in his head tries to persuade him further down the rabbit hole.  
  
He waits a beat, listening to the shitty shower and briefly thinks of that broad back with a mix of old scars and lean muscle, water running over shoulders and down a spine. Cassidy shakes his head roughly, trying to clear his mind as he shoves his pants off and stumbles over them in his haste. “Fuck it,” he mutters and falls to the mattress on the floor, jeans and oversized briefs still around his knees and calves.  
  
There’s no build up to it, no teasing touches to the inside of his thighs or the scratch of chewed nails running along the thin skin of his hips. Cassidy all but drools into his hand, giving his fingers a rough lick and quick spit into his palm before he wraps it around his shaft. He shoves the wrist of his free arm into his mouth in an effort to cut off any stream of consciousness that’s already threatening to come out.  
  
He doesn’t try to go slow or gentle with himself, instead setting a brutal rhythm as he races toward the destination versus drawing out the journey like he normally would. His grip’s too hard, the friction on the wrong side of rough, but the ache and taut heat in his gut keeps coiling tighter and tighter. A whine bubbles in the back of his throat, loud in his ears over his furious heaving through his nose as he tries to stamp it down, already feeling awfully high-strung.  
  
Precum leaks steadily from the tip, easing the slide and letting him go quicker. He shoves his bare heels against the thread-bared mattress for leverage, fucking up into his fist and giving it a twist on the upstroke. His mind cannot focus on a singular thing, bouncing from memories and half remembered images and fantasies all in the same breath; thinking of how fluid Jesse moved in that god forsaken bar, of their conversation only a handful of minutes earlier, of how the preacher would look on his knees with Cassidy’s cock in his mouth.  
  
The pipes creak as the shower runs, streaming from the attic’s water heater to the opposite end of the church. The sound serves as a constant reminder to the fact that Jesse is a brisk walk and a door away, naked and wet and unobtainable.  
  
Thankfully the overwhelming Texan heat backs off during the night, letting the attic cool down to a manageable mugginess, but Cassidy still uses it as an excuse to strip bare. His shirt clings to him with a mix of old and new sweat, reminding him that he really ought to fix that damned air conditioner for comfort and not just to justify his reason for sticking around. Though, given his near-dead body temperature and constant state of heat-hunger, it could be worse. At least in Texas he manages to work up a sweat. He is certainly not fairing as bad as any other ordinary mortal. Cassidy not completely sure where Jesse resides on the spectrum of human and supernatural anymore, if they even share the same litmus test.  
  
Cassidy goes to unknot the length of rope he’d been using as a belt, fingers fumbling against the metal button and zipper as his cock throbs beneath the layers of denim and cotton. “Shite,” he curses at himself, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a steadying breath as the voice in his head tries to persuade him further down the rabbit hole.  
  
He waits a beat, listening to the shitty shower and briefly thinks of that broad back with a mix of old scars and lean muscle, water running over shoulders and down a spine. Cassidy shakes his head roughly, trying to clear his mind as he shoves his pants off and stumbles over them in his haste. “Fuck it,” he mutters and falls to the mattress on the floor, jeans and oversized briefs still around his knees and calves.  
  
There’s no build up to it, no teasing touches to the inside of his thighs or the scratch of chewed nails running along the thin skin of his hips. Cassidy all but drools into his hand, giving his fingers a rough lick and quick spit into his palm before he wraps it around his shaft. He shoves the wrist of his free arm into his mouth in an effort to cut off any stream of consciousness that’s already threatening to come out.  
  
He doesn’t try to go slow or gentle with himself, instead setting a brutal rhythm as he races toward the destination versus drawing out the journey like he normally would. His grip’s too hard, the friction on the wrong side of rough, but the ache and taut heat in his gut keeps coiling tighter and tighter. A whine bubbles in the back of his throat, loud in his ears over his furious heaving through his nose as he tries to stamp it down, already feeling awfully high-strung.  
  
Precum leaks steadily from the tip, easing the slide and letting him go quicker. He shoves his bare heels against the thread-bared mattress for leverage, fucking up into his fist and giving it a twist on the upstroke. His mind cannot focus on a singular thing, bouncing from memories and half-remembered images and fantasies all in the same breath; thinking of how fluid Jesse moved in that godforsaken bar, of their conversation only a handful of minutes earlier, of how the preacher would look on his knees with Cassidy’s cock in his mouth.  
  
This close to coming, he doesn’t have the willpower to push them away; his toes are already curling and his muscles sporadically clenching and releasing with the anticipation of relief.  
  
But the rush of water cuts off abruptly, plunging the church into silence and making the wet slide and his panting sound even louder. He rolls over onto his stomach, trying to quiet his breathing as the shower curtain’s rings clang together as it gets pushed back. The bathroom door opens quietly and the quiet padding of footsteps as Jesse moves from the hallway to his bedroom.  
  
Cassidy buries his head against the heap of flat and wrinkled pillows, knees pressed into the sheets as he squeezes at the root of his cock and tries to choke down the mix of guilt and lust that pangs in his chest at the image of Jesse still wet and only covered by a ratty cotton towel. Cassidy waits for Jesse to close his bedroom for the night, wanting that symbolic barrier between them.  
  
“Goodnight, Cassidy,” Jesse calls up to him, but the metal knob never clicks into place, because the preacher doesn’t make the effort to close his door before the creak of his mattress squeaks as it takes on his weight.  
  
“Night, Padre!” Cassidy yells back, mouth free, faux chipper and bright to cover how breathless he feels. He knows that Jesse’s human ears probably can’t hear the minute shift of his hips as he cautiously rocks into his hand once, testing the waters to see if he’s going to get called out on it.  
  
With nothing but silence in the church and the chirping of crickets outside, Cassidy takes in a shaky mouthful and then clamps his free hand over his mouth and puts his head down as he starts stripping his cock in earnest again, smothering a quiet groan against his palm as he presses his thumbnail against the rim of his cockhead to the sensitive crown.  
  
The fantasy is coming back in technicolor, of Jesse naked and wet and doubled over on his creaky, old bed. His back on display, vulnerable and trusting, with his elbows down and ass up and a flush turning his shoulders and neck a bright red to match the needy, pink hole Cassidy’s picturing.  
  
The voice in his head has morphed, replaying Jesse saying his name, cloying and sweet. The preacher saying his name just gets under his skin, burrowing and living in his spinal cord and plucking his nerve endings with how Cassidy or just  _Cass_  sounds rolling off his tongue, sighed out, yelled, tone ranging from worn out to frustrated to amused. And fuck, Cassidy wants to make it good for him, wants Jesse to sweat and whimper and curse as he comes all over himself.   
  
Wants to see Jesse panting and on edge and maybe even crying a little bit for him.  
  
Cassidy’s eyes roll back into his skull and he ends up biting down on his knuckle as gasps and comes all over his hand and sheets, his eyes slam shut and his whole body going tight as it sucker punches him and buzzes to the rest of his limbs. “Holy fuck,” he breathes out, finally getting his bearings back.  
  
He flops back onto his back, chest still heaving as he tries to catch his breath. “Okay,” he mutters to himself and sits up, looking at lump of cloth at the end of his legs. He finally pushes them off completely and uses the briefs to clean himself up before tossing them to the heap with his jeans, rope, and shirt. On the To Do list in his mind, he adds “acquire more underwear,” under “fix the air conditioning.”  
  
He shifts away from the wet spot, lying on the other side of the mattress. Sated and sleepy, Cassidy’s able to roll onto his side and fall asleep without any of the guilt seeping in, whispering about how ashamed he should be.

**Author's Note:**

> please be kind and leave a comment.
> 
> i'm also on [tumblr](http://acespaceacepilot.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/SgtKarma) if you'd rather yell at me on those


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